Sir Henry Wotton (1568 - 1639 / England)

OH thou great Power, in whom I move,
For whom I live, to whom I die,
Behold me through thy beams of love,
Whilest on this Couch of tears I lye;
And Cleanse my sordid soul within,
By thy Chirsts Bloud, the bath of sin.

No hallowed oyls, no grains I need,
No rags of Saints, no purging fire,
One rosie drop from David's Seed
Was worlds of seas, to quench thine Ire.
O pretious Ransome! which once paid,
That Consummatum est was said.

And said by him, that said no more,
But seal'd it with his sacred breath.
Thou then, that hast dispung'd my score,
And dying, wast the death of death;
Be to me now, on thee I call,
My Life, my Strength, my Joy, my All.